Blue
by ParadoxOfInfinity
Summary: His ‘wife’ was gravely ill. BellatrixVoldemort, Oneshot, AUish.


Summary: His 'wife' was gravely ill. BellatrixVoldemort, Oneshot, AU.

Warnings: Contains some minor elements from Deathly Hallows, but this is AU anyway and so shouldn't matter. Oh, and the Death Eaters won.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, as surely as blue lilies don't exist in nature.

Author's Note: This is a Challenge Fic, written for my lovely co-account-user Evangeline. The original challenge was to write a Bellamort fluff, but ... let's just say I am not exactly good at fluff. Thus, this monstrosity was born.

Ev's challenge piece, a Lily/James fluff, will hopefully be up soon.

-Vesper

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**Blue**

The snow was falling gently in the street along which he walked, as if it was trying to blanket the horrors that were common to this part of the city with a deceitful veil of purity. The houses on either side were like giants standing silent in the dark, monstrosities slowly crumbling into the dust from which they seemed to have come. Rubbish heaps lined the road; their stench would have been overpowering had they not been frozen solid. All this gave the impression of an unpleasant neighbourhood to be in, which was a most correct assumption. That night, however, it was unusually quiet – as if the surroundings were holding its breath until the cloaked figure passed through.

His attention was currently focused on an old, beaten van parked haphazardly near a streetlight, on of its front wheels resting on the curb. The passing of many summers have reduced its once glaring yellow to a weak sort of cream, the colour of a boiled egg that has been mashed to a pulp. Its design was ancient by current standards; it might as well have been made in the 2210's. The tyres were missing from the back wheels, and through the shattered windows he could see that the interior was seat-less. Many of the neatly stencilled letters on its side have been blacked out, an effort by the local youth to spell offensive messages with the rest. Blazing above the Muggle paint, in glowing red magical dye, was the message: "Magic is Might".

That proves the antiquity of the vehicle, then; from what he knew, they did not use that motto anymore, and have not for a long time.

Still, the shadow of the van was a good place to temporarily hide himself. Invisibility was no use here; the accursed residents would be curious to see his footprints appear. Flying was definitely out of the question, and using both concurrently was too much bother. From where he sat he idly observed each of his observers, who were so secure in their belief of complete camouflage that they stuck out like an eye in the split between grubby curtains, for example. With a lazy tap of his wand, the previously flickering streetlights went out completely and tranquil darkness swooped in. He rested calmly in the snow that has been built up against his side of the van by the wind, watching the pairs of suspicious and fearful eyes disappear, one by one into the night. Disappeared like extinguishing candles, except they did not leave telltale wisps of smoke behind.

Squibs. Muggles. Filthy and cowardly as ever. Killing them all would be an excellent pastime if he didn't need this particular population stable and relatively ignorant of his presence in order to hide his wife. Which brings up the matter at hand.

He glided smoothly down the snow-covered street, leaving only faint marks in the older, compressed powder that would soon be covered by layers of fresh flakes from the heavens. Comforting, now; everything seemed to be working for him this time around. His wife was still presumably angry with him for the foolish wizard boy who had dared venture near her abode. He sighed, his breath forming no fog in the freezing air. It frustrated him that he had to eliminate the boy instead of the dirt that clogged these Muggle Quarter streets, but his wife's well-being _always_ came first.

It was a moment before he remembered her address, and when he did, an entire building materialized before his eyes. He easily stepped over the short fence of rubbish and climbed the stairs to its entrance.

Compared to the run-down housing on either side, it was a positive mansion. Its grimy windows and peeling paint spoke of long-time neglect, but there was _something_ about this house that made the average person shiver. There was _power_ in the air that perhaps even Muggles could feel. It was perhaps _that_ dark power which had gathered the unsavoury lot living in the surrounding area. He traced a loving finger over the serpentine doorknob, pale skin in stark contrast with the wood, before touching his wand to it.

After many clicks from the impressive set of locks behind the door, it opened to reveal a portal into pure blackness, through which he stepped quickly. The air inside was dry and dusty and dead, but it was at least warmer than outside, and he was grateful. Letting the heavy door shut of its own accord, he conjured a candle that floated in the air to illuminate the depressing state of the hallway. Although the wallpaper was magical, it has long lost its colour; great patches of it have already disintegrated. There was no furniture or further decoration.

Carefully, he brushed every flake of snow from his cloak. It would not do to leave a trail of melt water through his wife's house, not at all.

It has been such a long time since he had come to visit. So long, in fact, that he had forgotten even whether to measure the time that has passed in months, years, or decades. He hoped that it was long enough for her to forget about the boy who had followed him, yet somehow he wanted her to remember.

And remembering was increasingly difficult to do. He knew his wife was ill, and he needed to give her a potion, and that was about all. The _when_ and the _why_ and the _how_ of the illness completely escaped him. Perhaps he had known, once upon a time. Yet, the story was not a fairy tale, and it did not contain 'once upon a time'.

So he was visiting someone sick and possibly very morose. His mind told him to conjure something to grant some cheer to the general atmosphere of gloom. Somehow, the long-stemmed white lily seemed inappropriate. He tapped it, and the soft, curved petals turned a light shade of blue. There, settled. With any luck, he'll be gone before daybreak. Why even try to please? He had not had to put up pretences since many centuries ago, and was not about to start.

This wasn't about affection, he thought as he walked down the hallway and climbed the stairs. His feet shuffled quietly over the thick carpet of dust covering the _actual_ carpet. This was about duty, a tradition, something ritualistic for which he had forgotten the reason.

First to mind came the question of why he was even thinking of her as his 'wife' – a tribute to his only long-time female companion, possibly. As a matter of fact, his only long-time companion of any sort.

But she meant _something_ to him, and that was the sole reason of his being here.

Then, he remembered a detail about her disease. She had already been stricken the day he walked out of his respected position with the International Ministry, furious -- yet strangely calm, leaving the wizarding society no idea of where he had gone. This brought up nothing but more questions, but it was at least a step in the right direction.

The dust on the stairs was less thick, but clung to the hem of his cloak like those who have so often begged for mercy. How ignorant, believing he was capable of forgiveness!

As he paused outside of her door, he thought he heard a sound. Of course. She was still angry with him! Yes -- as always, she would feign restful sleep that he could not disturb. He grimaced. This time he would certainly wake her up – or wait until she cannot bear the deception anymore.

He touched his wand against the doorknob, and it promptly turned.

Just as he expected, his wife was lying on the iron-wrought bed, her arms folded over her chest, her face cast in shadow. Moonlight poured into the bare chamber from a window that was not yet covered with snow; it spilled over the dirty white sheets and one of her dark hands like liquid silver. He Vanished the candle that had floated alongside him, and entered the room.

What looked like burn marks and liquid splatters were discernible on the walls. The floor was comparatively free of dust, but was covered in other debris. Candle stubs were everywhere, as well as bits of unidentifiable black objects. There were designs chalked onto the dark wooden boards, their complexity still apparent after all this time. He crossed the room in long strides, and came to stand beside his wife's bed. She lied in the exact centre, so there was not enough room on either side, even for his skeletal frame. He dropped the lily on the floor and pulled out a vial of some swirling, silver potion. It was best to get to business straight away. If she does not stop pretending, then he would simply have to force the potion down her throat.

Leaning over, he pulled open her jaw, not without some difficulty. Was it just he, or was her skin colder than it should be? No matter. He quickly poured the contents of the vial between her lips.

A wave of warmth travelled over her still form; there, _there_ emerged the human side of his wife! He took hold of both her limp hands, one of which bore a heavy gold ring. His touch must have felt chilling to her, yet she did not stir. She really was asleep or unconscious, then.

His gaze wandered up her neck, past the lips and straight nose, finally resting on eyelids that did not flutter. It had been an eternity since he had seen them open, but he could recall, as clear as day, the memory of what lied behind. They were fiery eyes that refused to be described as honey or chocolate or anything so ridiculous; they embodied the bloodstained earth, which she herself so loved to create. Their look was passionate and fanatical and he would never see it again, because – because…

Because he had failed her. He didn't know what or when or how but only that he did.

He turned over one of her arms, and found on the inside his Mark. It mad no difference; those others who have had the honour have long since been buried. But she, the loyal, the faithful, had been saved in an effort to repay his ineptitude. Memories came back now, indistinct and unable to be fit into a comprehensible timeframe, but still satisfying.

She had fallen not because he was _unable_, but because he was _unwilling_ to prevent it. With what care should he have handled the soul of one who had wholeheartedly pledged it to him? With what sort of respect should he have treated those who gave it all unconditionally? With how much _love _—

And now the hands he held were completely still. He was suddenly troubled to touch them, and released them as if they burnt him.

His heart beat quickly as his eyes darted to her face and the purely imaginary tremble that changed it for a split second. But his heart did not slow, and his eyes travelled over her neck and the locket that hung around it. It was disturbing to see how little her chest moved, as if she was not breathing at all. He placed his hands over her sternum. The warmth was evident even through the robes and sheets; it was a relief. The disease has taken its toll on his wife, yet she has not given in.

But he knew he must find a cure, for his sake if not for hers. If he did not, he thought as he ran his fingers through the long hair that fanned out around her head, this woman will be the death of him. He never thought about it recently, but he recalled that one way of dying -- was of a broken heart.

Not because he cared for her, but because he did not _know_ whether or not he should or even _could_ care for someone in that way. Not because of unrequited love, but because of unfulfilled duty and _he should have saved her and none other…shouldn't recollections fade after the person is gone…shouldn't they_ … the fact that everything could be set right by a single word from her lips.

Let alone words from her mouth; there was not even scent on her skin. He looked away from his wife, and saw for the first time that the diagrams on to floor were elaborate pentagrams, drawn with much scrupulousness and by his own hand. The stains on the walls were dragon and unicorn blood, blackened with age. The whole room was positively buzzing with Dark and powerful magic. It was painfully evident that he _had_ tried to cure her before, dozens if not hundreds of times, and that he had failed. He stood there silently, watching the dust slowly drift and settle onto the remains of his failure.

He realized that he was stepping on something, and looked down to see the lily that he had conjured what seemed like years ago. A closer examination of the floor revealed that it was littered with countless cadavers of lilies, their soft indigo colouring barely visible in the dim light. Some were bound together with loops of string, the stems having shrivelled in the dry atmosphere until the empty ribbon gave off an air of ultimate hollowness.

When he bent down to examine one, it fell to powder between his pale fingers.

Picking up the freshest flower, he remembered a time when he had talked to the still figure on the metal bed -- talked about life and magic and the world outside this tomb, until finally he had gotten tired of it and each subsequent visit was conducted in mutual silence. He knelt next to her now and once again, in many centuries, voiced his determination to heal his beautiful, _beloved_ wife. Only this time, he would exhaust all of his resources, go to all the lengths necessary, and _never_ rest until he had succeeded, he breathed into her ear.

The flower he held was battered and bruised. Its slender stem was bent, the end unravelling into strands of verdant fibre. Some of its petals have been crushed, and those have become an even deeper shade of blue.

He studied it in the slowly fading moonlight, watching the fragile flesh turn translucent in its bath of silver. Then, he gently placed it on the perfectly preserved corpse of Bellatrix Lestrange.

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